It’s a rite of passage for young Canadian lawyers: getting fitted for the long black robes they will need in higher courts.

“Some are just so keen on wearing everything,” says Dorina Cristillo-Weigand, president of Imperial Robes, a leading legal attire tailor.

But other budding barristers are totally clued out, she says, laughing. They show up at the last minute, saying: “My friends say we have to have robes.”

Whatever their attitude, they are about to take part in a British and Commonwealth judicial tradition that has changed remarkably little over hundreds of years.

The barrister’s ensemble, with roots in 17th century Britain, consists of a billowing black robe of six to eight yards of fabric with large, bell-shaped sleeves; a black waistcoat; a white cotton wing-tipped shirt; and white tabs. Women can wear pants or a skirt. Judges wear sashes, usually red.

The robes are normally made of light “cool wool,” which absorbs 30 per cent of its weight in moisture, a blessing on hot days. Cheaper robes use a wool-polyester blend.

Imperial Robes is a family-run business with a workforce of eight, serving up to 3,000 customers a year. The company prides itself on using almost entirely Canadian goods, despite economic pressures to source offshore.

The second-storey office-factory on Richmond St. W. is a vestige of Toronto’s once flourishing garment district. All the measuring, cutting and sewing are done on the 4,500-square-foot premises.

A good set of robes will last up to 15 years, and cost $700 to $1,400. In a pinch you can rent the entire outfit for $75 a day.

“We have families — father and daughter, son and spouse — buying from us,” says Cristillo-Weigand’s husband and company vice-president Robert Weigand.

Imperial was founded by Dorina’s parents, John and Joanne Cristillo, in 1994, and both still play a major role. Joanne previously worked 23 years at one of North America’s oldest robe makers, Harcourts.

Harcourts lies a short distance away, on the third floor of a five-storey old brick building at the corner of Duncan and Adelaide Sts.

The company was founded by Englishman George Harcourt in 1842, and remained in his family until purchased by the Cooper family in 1973. It was recently bought by Oak Hall Industries Canada, a subsidiary of Virginia-based Oak Hall Industries.

With 30 employees, Harcourts is the largest legal robes manufacturer in North America. The company services all of Canada as well as Hong Kong and Caribbean countries that have a British court system.

“It’s a very labour-intensive industry. It needs hand crafting,” Harcourts vice-president Brian Weese says. “You need somebody to put pieces of a garment together and properly line them up.”

Harcourts’ factory floor could come from a 1940s movie. The sewing machines are old, and that’s by design. The old equipment is best, Weese says.

“The barrister’s gown really hasn’t changed at all,” says former Harcourts general manager and now technical adviser, Bert Harkes. “They’re the same as they were 200 years ago in England.”

The tradition stems from the fact that barristers are considered to be attending the monarch’s court, of which they are its officers, Harkes says. “It’s like their uniform.”

Over his long career, Harkes has dealt with many greats, including the late Supreme Court Chief Justice Bora Laskin, who several decades ago ordered the creation of a new set of red ceremonial robes trimmed with white mink for all his judges. The last time such robes had been made was 1889.

But he hears some lawyers grumble when they forget their robes and are barred from making submissions. They say: “Why do we need these things, anyway?”

Harkes recalls when a couple of budding lawyers showed up at convocation — the ceremony inducting them into the profession — expecting to be handed a gown, as happens in academe. But to their consternation, they discovered they had to bring their own legal robes. They rushed to Harcourts with 25 minutes to spare, begging for a set, which the company obligingly provided.

Edward Sapiano, a defence lawyer outfitted at Harcourts, says almost all counsel have been embarrassed in front of a jury by tripping over their robes, leading to strange contortions as they try to right themselves.

Clearly the judicial system would function without robes, Sapiano says. But they are “the great equalizer,” he adds, guarding against a jury being impressed by a lawyer’s $3,000 suit.

Defence lawyer Daniel Rechtshaffen, 37, got his robes from Imperial in 2003. On the whole, he would prefer not having to wear the “uniform.”

Even when dressed in robes, some lawyers manage to look sharper than others, he adds. Some wear threadbare or ill-fitting garments, while others wear their gowns smartly and squarely fitted to their shoulders.

Defence lawyer Leora Shemesh, 37, remembers her excitement as a young lawyer in 2000 at her Harcourts fitting. She later showed her off her new robes to a senior lawyer. “He said, ‘Don’t worry, in six months you’ll hate them,’” Shemesh recalls.

She doesn’t hate them, although they are not the most flattering. She appreciates their role as equalizer, but notes with wry distaste that some male colleagues never seem to clean their robes or wash their shirts, which is a bit of history she could live without.

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